Silences of Fallen Stars

by Vivien Dean

  Though he’d thought of killing himself more than once since coming back to Clearview, he’d never admitted it out loud to anyone. From the way Ronnie paled, it sounded as bad as it felt.

  “You don’t want to die,” Ronnie said.

  “And how would you know?” he spat back. “You haven’t given me the chance to say anything real.”

  “Blowing your head off sounds pretty real to me.”

  “Yeah, well, I haven’t done it yet. Which goes to show that just like everything else I’ve thought I could do, I’ve failed at that, too.”

  He was halfway to the stairs when Ronnie’s voice stopped him.

  “Don’t go.”

  Without being able to see how the war had changed him, the plea in Ronnie’s tone turned him back into the skinny eight-year-old Jim had found stuck up in the tree he’d climbed to get away from the pack of bullies determined to humiliate him. Jim had seen Ronnie around school, but they were in different classes—Jim had Mrs. Thurston, while Ronnie was in Mrs. Lindemann’s. He was walking home from the bus stop when he’d heard the taunts coming from the park, and when he’d gone to investigate, found three older boys throwing whatever they could get their hands on up at the pale wraith of a boy nestled high in the oak tree’s limbs.

  Jim reacted without thinking. He knocked down the biggest and pummeled him as hard he could until the kid cried uncle. His pals ran off at the first sign of blood, leaving Jim to coax Ronnie down with promises he wouldn’t let Ronnie get hurt again.

  From that point on, they’d been inseparable. Until the day Jim went off to college, anyway.

  “I’m sorry,” Ronnie said when Jim didn’t speak. “It’s just…you’re not the only one who’s tired of the way people look at him. I don’t know what happened with you, so I know it’s not the same, but it’s hard to sit back and take it all the time.” He laughed, a broken rattle of the sound Jim had always loved. “I’ve said more to you than I have to everybody else combined since I got shipped back, so of course you’re walking away. You’re probably better off. You don’t want to know what goes on in my head.”

  Slowly, Jim turned around. Ronnie had buried his head against the arms he folded on top of his bent knee, retreating from him as much as he’d retreated from the world by hiding out here in the basement. “I don’t want to fight.”

  Ronnie didn’t move.

  Jim ventured a few steps closer. “I wasn’t lying about wanting to be friends again, but I get that we can’t just pick up where we left off. A lot’s happened. But I don’t think we’re all that different, not deep down. Nobody ever knew me like you did. I’d like to think nobody knew you like I did, either.”

  His shoulders hitched, but still, Ronnie didn’t speak.

  “We don’t have to talk,” Jim said. “But I don’t want to leave.”

  When Ronnie lifted his head, his eyes were bleak. “I’m not good company.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Are you supposed to report to Mom on everything I say and do?”

  Jim shook his head. “She just wants to think you’re going to be okay.” He paused. “Are you?”

  “Seems like that’s a question I should be asking you.” But a glimmer of humor shone for the briefest of moments in his face before getting snuffed out. “No talking.”

  “Okay. Can I sing?”

  His joke prompted a small snort. He’d take it. “Only if you want me to kick you.”

  “With that leg? I think odds are on my side.”

  With the tension eased, he came back the rest of the way, opting to stretch out on the cot rather than the hard floor again. When Ronnie pulled out a magazine and tossed it at him, he caught it and rolled onto his stomach to read it comfortably. Bart Starr stared up at him, but Jim refrained from mentioning he’d already read this issue of Sports Illustrated when it came out last year.

  After all, it was new to Ronnie. And they both had a lot of catching up to do.

  Chapter 2

  The biggest drawback to staying in the basement was not being able to hear what was going on upstairs. Ronnie’s mom was too small to make the floorboards creak, and his father had always possessed the gift of stealth, so the best Ronnie could do was watch the clock and rely on his father’s stickler schedule.

  Four days after Jim stopped by to visit, he stood at the top of the basement stairs with one hand on the knob and his forehead resting against the door. Beads of perspiration dripped down the sides of his face. Climbing the stairs wasn’t impossible, but he’d had a rough night, the pain waking him over and over again when it didn’t leak into his dreams and turn them into nightmares. By all rights, he should stay in bed, read, and let Mom wait on him, but he’d vowed to himself that he’d do this today. If he let the pain win now, the pain had a better chance at winning the next time. Before Jim stopped by he might have been willing to risk that. Not anymore.

  Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped into the brightly lit kitchen. He had to stop and blink against the harsh brightness, to give his eyes time to adjust. His brain, too. Because for a split second, he didn’t see the faded linoleum or the lace curtains over the sink. He saw a desolate rice paddy and a chopper on the horizon.

  “Ronnie? Is everything okay?”

  Mom’s worried tone snapped him back to the present, and his gaze refocused to find her edging toward him, a dish towel in her hands. Every time he saw her these days, it was like the first all over again, when she’d flown out to California to see him as soon as he arrived at the VA hospital for his recovery. He’d opened his eyes, and there she was, like a hummingbird hovering at the side of his bed, too delicate to touch, always flitting away when he reached out to her.

  “I’m good,” he said to her now, even though it was a lie. He was adept at those. Much better than he’d been as a kid. He glanced at the empty counter, the few dishes remaining in the drying rack. “You busy?”

  “Of course not.” She was an excellent liar, too. “Are you still hungry? Would you like some more breakfast?”

  He’d barely managed to scarf down the toast and scrambled eggs she’d brought down an hour ago, but he’d eaten every bite in case she used it as an excuse to refuse him now. “I was hoping you could give me a ride.” Another side effect of the brace. His mobility relied upon the kindness of those around him since the only car at his disposal was the one his father had purchased when Ronnie came back home. Mom needed to be able to take him to doctor appointments without bothering his father at work, but the only vehicle they could afford had a manual transmission. Ronnie wasn’t anywhere ready to be driving that on his own.

  She knew nothing about his shame in having to ask for help and visibly brightened. “Oh? Where?”

  “Jim invited me out to the farm.” He phrased it that way to sell it better, but the “invite” was more Jim joking as he was leaving that living outside of town was just as good as your parents’ basement when it came to privacy. No mention had been made of Ronnie stopping by. The hope had been behind the words, and they both knew it.

  “That’s wonderful.” Mom was already moving, tossing aside the towel before heading to the front room. “You boys should’ve been spending time together long before this.”

  He doubted either one of them had been ready before this, but she didn’t want to hear that. He waited as she wound her scarf around her head, then followed her out to the garage.

  As they drove to the McCutcheon farm, Ronnie hunched down in the front seat as far as the brace would let him comfortably go, shielding his eyes from the painful summer glare. He’d forgotten his sunglasses, but Mom was too excited about his request to venture out to notice. Though it was on the tip of his tongue to ask her to turn around to get them, he was afraid that if he did, he wouldn’t get in the car again. It was too easy to talk himself out of this, mostly because he was terrified of not getting what he really wanted. Jim professed to want the old days back, while recognizing an exact duplicate was out of the question.<
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  Ronnie hadn’t said it out loud, but the second Jim made the confession, he craved it, too.

  When Mom turned onto Auburn Gate Road, the already bumpy ride turned into a nightmare of bouncing and jostling, courtesy of the dusty dirt pitch the McCutcheon farm was on. Ronnie gritted his teeth against the bolts of fire that shot up his leg and into his hip with every yard they traveled, but his eyes watered with bitter tears anyway by the time she rolled into the winding driveway.

  She parked behind a gold Fairlane he didn’t recognize. “I’ll let him know you’re here,” she chirped.

  His arm flew across to stop her from getting out. “No, that’s okay. I’ll do it.” He didn’t want her to hear in case Jim turned him away. At the hurt look on her face, he added in a softer tone, “I need to stretch my legs anyway. Just hang on while I find out if he can give me a ride home, okay?”

  Though it took a moment, she gave him a wan smile and nodded. He leaned across the seat and pecked her cheek, ignoring the fresh pain that went through his leg at the awkward angle.

  “Be right back.”

  As he began the laborious trek to the front door, it opened, and Grandpa Mac stepped out onto the bowing porch. Ronnie hadn’t been lying to Jim about being sorry about his grandma. Without grandparents of his own—one set passed on, the other living in Vermont—the McCutcheons had adopted him as one of theirs, spoiling him in the same manner they did Jim, giving him grief when he disappointed them. He’d never told Jim this, but when he looked at Grandpa Mac, he saw Jim in fifty years. They had the same sturdy build, the broad shoulders, the hams for fists. While Jim’s hair was dark blond, Grandpa Mac had gone white, as thick and wavy as Jim’s could get when he managed to duck out of barbershop appointments growing up. The sharp intelligence in their hazel eyes mirrored each other, too. Everybody always underestimated them at first glance, seeing the brawn but not the brain.

  Ronnie had only made that mistake before meeting Jim for real. “Hi, Mr. McCutcheon.”

  His thick brows shot up. “What, you get shot at a few times and all of a sudden you’re too grown up to call me Grandpa Mac? Shame on you, boy.”

  In spite of the playful scolding, Ronnie chuckled, his nerves dissipating. He should’ve known Grandpa Mac wouldn’t treat him any different. “It’s been a while,” he offered in explanation.

  “Too long,” Grandpa corrected. He looked over Ronnie’s shoulder and nodded to his mom. “I think you lost your manners over there in Vietnam. Go invite your mother inside where it’s cool.”

  “She’s not staying.” He took a deep breath. “Is Jim around?”

  “Out back. Hang on.” Grandpa jogged down the stairs, probably faster than Ronnie could take them these days, and rounded the corner of the house. “Jimmy!” he bellowed. “Get your ass up here!”

  Sweat trickled beneath Ronnie’s collar as he waited. He should’ve worn a T-shirt, but being in the basement all the time had made him forget how hot it would be outside. He tried not to fidget, but when Jim appeared at the end of the worn out path in the grass that led all the way to the stable, he couldn’t help but stand a little straighter.

  Jim was filthy. His faded jeans were covered in dust, while the dirt that coated his bare, sweaty chest was even thicker. Grass stains ran down the side of his left leg. He even had some broken leaves stuck in his hair.

  Ronnie couldn’t look away from him. Even like this, Jim was the best looking guy he’d ever known.

  When he spotted Ronnie, Jim jerked to a halt, looking so surprised he was the spitting image of Grandpa Mac just a few moments earlier. “Did I leave something at your house?” he said in lieu of a greeting.

  “No, no.” With the time at hand, his tongue felt thick and awkward around the words he wanted so desperately to get out. “I thought…I wanted to…” None of it was working. What he finally managed was, “I’m bored.”

  The shock shifted into a wide grin. It made new creases at the corners of his eyes, crinkles Ronnie hadn’t been able to see the other day because Jim hadn’t smiled once the whole time he was visiting. Older and still so much the same. Ronnie wondered what had happened in the years since he’d gone off to college to steal that smile away.

  “You came to the right place,” Grandpa said. “There’s always plenty to do around here.” He hitched a thumb toward the idling car. “Let me tell your mom to skedaddle while Jimmy gets you suited up to help with those stumps. I’ll tell her you’re staying for supper, too. Take some of the work off her shoulders for a change.”

  He was trudging away before Ronnie could protest.

  “You should’ve led with wanting to catch up.” Jim appeared at his side, the rich smell of his sweaty skin as refreshing and welcoming as the clean air. “Now you’ll be stuck working all day.”

  “He knows about my leg, right?”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s got eyes, yeah. But you know what he’ll say.” He puffed out his chest and pitched his voice even lower than it already was. “‘God made sure you’ve still got two perfectly good arms, so don’t be spitting in His face by not using them.’”

  His impersonation was so on the nose, Ronnie laughed again. The sound seemed to startle Jim, who stared at him for a long moment, then relaxed himself.

  “You can’t see the stumps he’s talking about from the house,” Jim said. “So if it’s too much for your leg, don’t worry about taking a break.”

  In the time since he’d spotted Jim, he’d forgotten about the pain. The reminder brought it back, but he wasn’t about to let that get in the way of spending time with Jim.

  “I can keep it up as long as you can.”

  Jim’s calculating gaze swept over him. “Is that a dare?”

  No, it had been a promise, but he liked the idea of the challenge between them. “Afraid of losing to a crip?”

  His face darkened. “Stop calling yourself that.”

  “It’s true.”

  “That doesn’t mean I like it.”

  “You can’t pretend I’m the same.”

  “Are you telling me you want me to think of you as some helpless invalid?”

  “No,” he admitted without thinking. “You know I hate that.”

  “So do I. So stop it.”

  He nodded slowly. The crunch of the gravel as Mom backed out of the drive stopped him from saying anything more. It was just as well. He might’ve embarrassed himself with some sappy sentiment that might make Jim uncomfortable. The last thing he wanted was to spoil the détente that had settled between them.

  “All settled.” Grandpa Mac gave him a savvy onceover, then shook his head. “Better take the shirt off before you get to work. Your mom’ll thank me later.”

  Hunching his shoulders, Ronnie pulled it over his head without undoing the buttons and handed it over. He felt Jim’s eyes rake down him again and steeled against the urge to snatch the shirt back. Not everybody could look like a Greek god. Besides, he’d managed to bring back a few muscles from Vietnam along with all the new scars. He didn’t have anything to be ashamed of.

  As long as Jim didn’t look too closely at the scars that stippled the right side of his body.

  They didn’t speak as they trudged to the backyard, Jim leading the way at a pace that Ronnie could easily follow. The stumps in question had once been a cluster of willows they used to swing from, mostly because they stood at the top of a rise that meant rolling down a hill into a narrow creek if you let go at the right time. They would bet who could go the farthest, and once, Ronnie had even managed to make it all the way to the water before touching the ground.

  “Why’d you cut them down?” Ronnie asked.

  “I didn’t.” Jim picked up the shovel he must’ve left behind when Grandpa called him. “Before Grandma died, she said she wanted to be able to watch the sunset from her bedroom window, but she couldn’t because the trees were in the way. Grandpa chopped them down the very next day.”

  It was hard to begrudge something that had given Grandma Mac pl
easure in her final days, but Ronnie still felt the loss like a hole in his heart. Another part of his childhood destroyed, never to be regained except from memories.

  “Can you get down on your hands and knees?” Jim asked.

  Ronnie cocked a brow at him. “Can you?”

  Jim rolled his eyes. “I’ll dig, and you can use the pick to clear away the dirt from the roots for me.”

  The division of labor worked. Being on the ground took the stress off Ronnie’s lower leg, allowing the pain that had tortured him for the past twelve hours to ebb to more tolerable levels. His shoulders ached from the constant swings of the pick, and he managed to swallow dirt when it went flying haphazardly a couple times, but those were minor complaints in the grand scheme of things.

  The morning passed in a blur of sweat and sunshine. In some ways, it was like being on the march back in Vietnam, when they were too focused on the job to notice the hours fly by. Jim didn’t bother with small talk, which suited Ronnie just fine. He hadn’t been this physical since his discharge, and his lungs weren’t thrilled at his sudden activities.

  When Grandpa came out with sandwiches and a pitcher of ice water, he gulped down two glasses without a pause, throwing the third over his head to cool down. Jim did the same, though where the water ran down Ronnie’s neck and back, Jim only managed to wet his hair.

  “I like it long,” Ronnie heard himself saying after Grandpa left them alone again. “It makes you look like George Peppard from that western.”

  Jim frowned. “What western?”

  “You know. The one with Dean Martin.”

  It took a minute of obvious thinking for Jim to offer, “Rough Night in Jericho?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “That came out last year. How’d you see it?”

  Though he’d been injured in the fall of ‘67, Ronnie hadn’t returned to Clearview until this past spring. “They showed it to a bunch of us from the hospital. Rented out a drive-in and everything.”